


Since July

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Series: Ramessi 2019 [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Drinking, FC Barcelona, Friendship, M/M, One Night Stands, Past Relationship(s), Real Madrid CF, teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17705756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: "I did not fucking injure my leg because I have blue balls," Messi says tiredly. He turns his face until he's looking at Sergio again and tries to be serious. "That is an unrelated coincidence."





	Since July

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeoDios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoDios/gifts), [prompt_fills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/gifts), [yulin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/gifts).



> Blame Leodios for this. So this is for her. And for yulin bc she's always so supportive and lovely. Also prompt_fills for their continues little Ramessi drabbles. xo
> 
> (Also, I fudged the date on this to make it work for my sequel haha xo)

When Geri stumbles off to use the restroom, Sergio just laughs and goes to take his beer back to the table. Of course, that's before he notices exactly who's been hiding behind Geri's bulk. "Have you been sitting there by yourself this entire time? Where's your guard dog? You let him off the leash for once?" he asks Lionel Messi, cackling at his own humor. "Get it, because of the whole biting thing? Get it?"

Messi raises his eyebrows from where he's apparently been sitting behind Geri's back. The empty bottles next to him speak for themselves. "That joke's never been funny," he says, shaking his head like he's disappointed. "But Luis didn't come out tonight. New baby and all. Between you and me, he wanted to, but also didn't want Sofi to kick his ass. So." He sounds like he thinks it's incredibly funny, and Sergio wonders if it's because Messi's a new father who doesn't have the same restrictions.

"And you didn't stay behind in solidarity? Tsk, tsk, Leo. Out to party? Maybe you're not as boring as we all thought," Sergio teases, ready to head back to the table and leave Messi to deal with Geri when he returns. But then the light catches Messi's forearm, resting on the bar, and Sergio's distracted. He suddenly feels the need to take the opportunity to study Messi's tattoos. "I mean, you're still pretty boring," Sergio rambles. "Look at what you're wearing and all," he says, though there's little sting in his words and Messi's plain black t-shirt and distressed jeans aren't as bad as his usual get-up.

"Just wanted to wind down with a few drinks," Messi says, ignoring Sergio's crack about his outfit. Maybe because he doesn't have room to defend himself there, and he knows it. "Nothing adventurous about that." Though Messi does graciously turn his arm over when Sergio bends over for a closer look. "Haven't you seen it before?" he asks curiously. "There's nothing new there, you know. Not for a while."

Sergio hesitates, and then reaches down to push Messi's sleeve up slightly more. His hand seems huge against Messi's arm. It's a bit improper, crossing boundaries he probably shouldn't cross, but Messi humors him, letting go of his beer so that he can show Sergio the cathedral window on the elbow. "Nice," Sergio says appreciatively, tracing the lines of design without meaning to. He's never been good at keeping his hands to himself, especially with ink and this is the first time he's seen Messi's art so close up and in the flesh.

Messi shivers at his touch, and Sergio pulls back. "Sorry," Sergio says immediately.

"No harm done," Messi murmurs, but the gooseflesh on his arm tells another story.

Sergio's eyes linger, but then he straightens up and smiles, trying to put Messi back at ease. This might be their longest ever interaction alone without talking shop and he's determined to make the most of it. "Your guy's pretty good. I like his style. You ever thought about doing the other arm?" He takes a sip of his beer as he imagines it. "Have to say, I never pictured you getting as much done as you have already," he adds honestly.

Messi shrugs. "Maybe that's why I did it in the first place," he says. And Sergio can understand that, doing it for the shock value. "But no, for now I like just the one arm," Messi explains. His lips twist thoughtfully, though, as if Sergio's given him something to think about. "Who knows, though? Been working on the legs here and there, not sure I want anything else. I don't know. Never say never."

Sergio laughs. "Cris used to say that a lot. Either he picked it up from you or you picked it up from him. Which was it?" He's amused when couples start to imitate each other, and it makes him wonder what else Messi says because Cris says it too.

Messi instantly pulls his sleeve down and back into place, covering his arm. "Mmm, I don't know," he mumbles. He turns back to his beer, sipping leisurely. "It's a popular saying, isn't it?" He looks down at the bar, twirling his bottle slightly. "Doesn't really matter." Somehow it's an oddly defensive thing to say.

Sergio frowns, wondering what just happened. They'd somehow lost the ease of the conversation and Sergio has a feeling he's missing something. "Nah, no biggie. Just wondering." He watches Messi twirl the bottle, considering again why Messi is at the bar and drinking by himself as opposed to hanging out with the others. "How is he, by the way?" At Messi's blank expression, Sergio rolls his eyes. "Cris, I mean. Your annoying other half. How is he? I've been meaning to call him, and we played phone tag for awhile, but lately, I keep forgetting. And then they went out of the cup and it just didn't seem like the right time."

Messi blinks at him. "I wouldn't know," he says, a touch of something sharp in his tone now. It's so different from his usual soft and slurry voice that Sergio catches it at once. "I haven't talked to him in ages. The press says he's having a great season, though, so there's that." There's bitterness there, bitterness and hurt and anger and something else.

Sergio's caught completely off guard. Of all the things, he'd never guessed there was trouble there. "I thought you guys were a thing," he says, unable to curb his tongue. Because honestly, he did, he never would have brought up Cris if he'd known it was a sore spot like this. Granted, he hadn't talked to Cris in a while, but he at least thought Cris would have mentioned if he'd ended things with Messi.

That would have been kinda big news.

Messi's expression doesn't change. "I thought so too," he says bluntly. "Guess not." He stares up at Sergio then, dark eyes wordlessly challenging Sergio to ask about it again.

And since Sergio doesn't know when to leave it, he gives in. He settles down on the barstool next to Messi and plunks his beer down on the bar. People might see them together now, but it probably won't be the end of the world. "So how long's it been?" he asks hesitantly, not even sure why he's continuing on like this. Truthfully, he's so confused.

Messi looks at him incredulously. "You didn't know? Since he went to Juve. The summer. Midsummer?" He softens when he sees Sergio's genuine confusion and fumbles for a date. "So, what, July? I've mostly tried to forget about it if you really want to know." He shakes his head and takes another sip of his beer. "Obviously, I'm still angry about how things ended."

Sergio twirls his own beer in his hands, wondering how he missed that. The shitty World Cup probably. "Since July," he echoes. "Wow, sorry." He's not sure he really understood whatever it was between the two of them, with the two of them always seeming so different, but seeing Messi unruffled doesn't make him feel that happy.

On the pitch is one thing, but off the pitch is another. The whole reason everyone's at the bar is that the players wanted to hang out and have a good time. And to Sergio, it's clear by now that Messi's not enjoying himself and probably hasn't been for the entire evening.

"Were things fine before that? Was it him transferring? Or...?" Sergio asks out of morbid curiosity. Again, he's not sure why he's asking these types of questions. He should probably be asking Cris instead of Messi. But Sergio can't stop the words coming out of his mouth. Maybe because he's so blindsided. Or maybe a part of him has always wanted to understand Messi, and it's only now that they're having an actual conversation that he realizes he should seize his chance.

Messi runs a hand through his hair in what Sergio knows is a nervous tic. "Depends on your definition of fine," Messi says shortly, uncomfortable with the question. Then he shrugs. "I dunno, Sergio. What do you want me to say? We were together and now we're not. He's moved on to bigger and better things, according to him. And I'm just the same old person that I ever was. Alright? Is that what you want to hear?" His lips press together into an angry line and he jerks his head away to stare tensely at the wall.

Sergio can hear Cris' derision in Messi's words and he shakes his head. "Well, I'm sorry things ended unhappily," he says, trying to think of what else he can say. He's not going to defend Cris' actions when he doesn't understand them at all. "I wouldn't say bigger and better, by the way," he adds, watching the way Messi's shoulders relax slightly. "Cris can't do better than you. And on top of that, I think you're playing in the best league in the world and there's no reason to go anywhere else." He nudges Messi. "Unless you're looking to transfer over to my side of town, in which case, I really think you should consider that."

"Gross," Messi says, but there's a smile playing around his lips now. "White's not my color."

Sergio laughs, feeling better that he's made Messi forget his troubles for a minute. No point in being miserable so many months after the fact. "You have no idea what your color is, clearly. But I know what you mean." He shakes his head and tries to imagine a world where Messi plays for Real Madrid with him. Honestly, it's too difficult to picture and he comes back to himself ruefully.

Messi's still smiling, ducking his head like he doesn't want Sergio to see. It's that cute kind of smile, dimples out and white teeth flashing.

"How's the leg?" Sergio asks, looking for a distraction. He gestures toward Messi's bad thigh, not so much fishing for information as trying to commiserate. "I hope it doesn't keep you down too much longer. You might have the press fooled, but I could tell you weren't at one hundred percent out there."

Messi lifts his head and then stares at him as if he's weighing his words, perhaps trying to decide whether to keep his cards close to his chest. It would make sense if he didn't answer, thinking strategically about what Sergio could do with the information. But in the end, he must see Sergio's sincerity. "Aches a little," Messi reveals, lowering his voice and leaning slightly toward Sergio like he doesn't want to be overheard. "If it had been any other game..." he says, trailing off.

"Yeah, I gotcha," Sergio says, taking another swig of his beer. "Just a knock, or worse?"

Messi shifts on the stool, opening his body toward Sergio's. "Knock," he says, spreading his legs and then rubbing his inner thigh. "Mostly here," he says, drawing Sergio's attention high on the leg, nearly to the groin. His fingers massage gently. "Just needs some rest, I'm sure. You know how it is, with the cold temps and the constant work."

Sergio follows his fingers, watching Messi move them back and forth. "Mmm," he says in agreement, clutching his beer tighter so that he doesn't accidentally reach out. He finds he needs another sip of his beer to wet his throat. "Right, well, hopefully, you're back to normal in no time."

Geri reappears at that moment, having found his way back from the restroom. He's still well on his way to being drunk and towers above them unsteadily. "Sergio! And Leo! Two of my very favorite people! What are you two co-co-con-conspiring about together over here in the corner?" He looks between them, noting their closeness and a look of horror comes over his features. "Am I interrupting? Oh my god, tell me I'm not interrupting?!"

Sergio's amused, and he goes to exchange a look with Messi, but he's surprised to find that Messi just looks tired now.

"You're not, Geri. You know that. We're just talking," Messi says, turning back toward the bar and his drink. "Why don't you go have something to eat, hmmm?" All of Sergio's good work looks to have been undone, and Messi's shoulders slump like he's utterly defeated.

Geri's only slightly oblivious. He combs his fingers through Messi's hair and kisses the top of his head. "Good," he says, looking at Sergio suspiciously. "Just because you're lonely doesn't mean that you need to start a new relation-thing with one of these guys. They're not good for you, okay, not good enough for you at all. One was bad enough, okay? We'll find you somebody better than this. I know lots of people better than them." He waves his hand in Sergio's face in what is probably supposed to be a threatening manner, and then heads over to the food as directed, stopping to hug nearly every person he runs into.

Messi sighs and thuds his head down on the bar. "Any chance you wanna forget everything you just heard?" The words are slightly muffled, but Sergio's close enough to hear him just fine.

"Geri, Geri, Geri," Sergio says, clucking his tongue. "I mean, I love him to death, but also want to strangle him ninety percent of the time. So. I feel you. Especially since I know he was never that supportive of you and Cris." Messi doesn't lift his head, but he turns it toward Sergio, still looking defeated. "Lonely, though?" Sergio asks hesitantly, unable to leave it alone.

Messi blinks at him. He sighs again. "Maybe. It's not that I miss Cris all the time," he says slowly, finally sitting back up. He rubs his forehead in frustration. "It's not like I saw him all the time anyway, with him being in Madrid and me being in Barcelona, of course. I just miss, I don't know. I miss somebody being there when I need them. Somebody to talk to who understands. And Geri does his best and Luis too, of course." He ignores the sound of disbelief that Sergio makes at the idea of Suárez helping anyone. "You know?"

"I'm sure you'll find somebody," Sergio says, trying not to sound too dubious, while wondering what he'd done in a past life to end up giving Lionel Messi relationship advice. "You just gotta, I don't know, look around. Go out a few times. Take a few chances. And if needed, just have a couple one night stands, right?" He grins at Messi. "I mean, I'm sure you've done that lately, if you're looking for company. Right? Gotta scratch that itch."

Messi's face goes through a multitude of emotions before it finally goes blank. "Of course."

"Why are you..." Sergio stares at him, not understanding that dull tone. "How... how long has it been, Leo?" Messi can't possibly mean what Sergio thinks he means. There's no way. It's Lionel fucking Messi. He could get anyone he wants, Sergio's sure of that. So there must be some mistake...

Messi clears his throat, turning pink and looking anywhere but Sergio. Then he thunks his head back down on the bar. "Since July," he says, nearly in a whisper.

"July?" Sergio repeats. "July. July as in... July." He lets go of his beer and starts counting on his fingers. "Leo, that's like six months!" he whispers, completely horrified. "What the fuck have you been doing?"

"Well, not fucking, obviously!" Messi whispers back furiously.

Sergio can't understand. "How can that be possible? I genuinely don't understand. How are you even functioning?" He puts his hand on Messi's back, feeling the muscles tense immediately. "Okay, this is starting to make a lot more sense, now." Cris had really done a number on Messi if this was the result, and Sergio is starting to feel an urge to call Cris and yell at him about the damage he's left behind.

"I did not fucking injure my leg because I have blue balls," Messi says tiredly. He turns his face until he's looking at Sergio again and tries to be serious. "That is an unrelated coincidence."

Sergio raises his eyebrows. "Maybe," he says, not even trying to hide how unconvinced he is. Because he knows even the littlest thing can mess up the body when they're playing every few days. Diet, exercise, and relationships all can have a huge impact. Or lack there of, in Messi's case, apparently. "But, seriously. You feel like you're about to explode," Sergio says, trying to get his point across. "You're strung so tight that I'm starting to get worried about you, and if I--a Madridista--am worried, don't you think that says a lot?"

Messi shrugs off his hand and sits back up. "Well, it's not really your problem, now is it?" he asks, busying himself with his drink. His eyes are flicking all around the bar now, most definitely trying to avoid eye contact with Sergio. "Why don't you run along now, having done your duty, talked to poor me for long enough to be polite. Geri will probably be mad if you stay any longer, anyways," he adds, taking a final sip of his beer before pushing the empty bottle away in frustration to join the others in front of him.

Sergio has a truly awful idea.

Just to make sure it's as awful as he thinks, he takes a second to finish off his own beer, staring at Messi's profile. And when he's finished, he's still pretty convinced how terrible it is. He takes in Messi's ferocious expression, following the flush on his cheeks to his pink lips and the thick throat.

"What if," Sergio starts, pushing his now empty bottle across the bar to sit next to Messi's collection, "I want to make it my problem."

Messi's flush has traveled down his face and to his neck, the redness visible even in the dim light of their corner. "What the hell does that mean?" he mutters, still refusing to look at Sergio. His dark hair has fallen over his eyes slightly, like he's trying to hide. But he hasn't stomped off in a fit of rage, so Sergio doesn't give up.

Sergio considers him again, trying to figure out the best way to put this into words. Nobody would deny that the two of them, together, caused friction. It's never been a secret that Messi gets him hot under the collar in the worst way. On the pitch, it was terribly annoying and Sergio was forced to use every bit of his strength against him.

Off the pitch was another story.

Sergio'd just stuffed what he figured out ages ago was attraction, deep down inside. Especially when Cris was around--figured it would all come out in therapy years down the line or else in some tell-all book long after he retired.

There's a thin line between love and hate, after all.

It had been occurring to Sergio for some time now that the arguments against the idea were somewhat weak. If asked, Sergio might say that Messi wasn't his type. He wasn't classically good looking. Messi was comically short, with messy, unstyled dark hair, that clashed with a terribly ungroomed ginger beard. All of that went with his ugly clothes and the aforementioned lack of style. Messi also had that annoying Argentine accent, and an awful taste in friends. Worst of all, he played for Barcelona, which made it incredibly tough to think of him as anything other than a rival.

That said. Sergio would absolutely hit it.

Especially since now Cris was out of the picture.

It might be a little against the rules to get with a friend's ex, but Sergio was never one for rules. Messi's football turned him on. He's only half ashamed to admit it, but football in general turned Sergio on, and Messi was good at what he did. Then there was Messi's appearance. The new tattoos were a huge plus. As were the thick thighs and that deliciously curved ass. Height-wise, Messi might be short, but there was something attractive about their size difference--something that Sergio would really like to explore. The dark hair might be messy, but it was just the right length for Sergio to run his fingers through. The beard was honestly regrettable, but the soft voice wasn't really all that bad. The friends were something Sergio could ignore, as were the team colors. (Maybe.)

Yes, Sergio would hit it.

"Wanna get out of here?" Sergio asks, leaning in slowly, making clear his intent. "You. And me. Together. And before you say anything," he adds, when Messi looks at him in shock, "I'm deadly serious." He really is, even though this could backfire spectacularly. But now he's built the idea up and really doesn't want anything other than to spend the night with Messi.

Messi taps his finger against the bar, dark eyes still focused on Sergio's like he can't believe what he just heard. He opens his mouth to say something, and then slowly closes it like he can't figure out what to say. "Sergio... Why?" he finally croaks, trying to find his voice. And then, "Why?" he asks again, still unable to comprehend Sergio's offer. "You don't want me--"

"Why not?" Sergio says in response. "We're friendly enough. You can hold a conversation longer than a lot of the braindead jocks around here. You're smart and sometimes funny, I'll give you that. I'd say we get along alright. Off the pitch," he adds quickly. before Messi can retort something about red cards and fouls. "You wouldn't have to worry about the press or me selling my story to anyone, since I'm just as famous as you are." He flicks his eyes down to Messi's very tempting thighs and then back up again. "You're incredibly fit--maybe not as much as I am, but I'm willing to forgive you for that. Along with your team loyalties."

"Oh, are you?" Messi mumbles, but his finger's stopped tapping the bar.

"It would just be tonight," Sergio coaxes, leaning closer to Messi, watching his pupils dilate. "Would be just the thing you need to let of some steam, relax, loosen up..." He very carefully doesn't imagine the ways that he could loosen Messi up. But they involve his fingers and a lot of oil. "I'd love to help you with that."

"What do you get out of it?" Messi asks then, a spark of interest starting to show up, though he looks like he's trying not to seem too needy. "I don't want to be a charity case, so if that's all you're interested in, then you can fuck off--" 

"It's not charity," Sergio answers, shrugging. "The game's over, I'm tired of drinking, and you very clearly aren't enjoying yourself here. We're friends, aren't we? Why not come with me? We'd have a good time, have a little fun between the sheets for a few hours." He licks his lips, watching as Messi zeroes in on them.

Gotcha.

"It's two people having a little get together without strings before they go back to their very stressful and busy lives." He lowers his voice again. "Nobody has to know, either, but, for the record, Leo, I think you'd enjoy yourself. And I'm *very* good at what I do."

His promise hangs in the air for so long that Sergio thinks he's miscalculated. Messi just continues to stare at him, the flush more vivid than ever. But then.

"Let's go."


End file.
